


A Visit Late is Better Than no Visit at All

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Ghosts, Introspection, No Dialogue, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26237977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: How often do you think a friendly ghost attends funerals?
Kudos: 3





	A Visit Late is Better Than no Visit at All

**Author's Note:**

> This was _meant_ to be a short drabble prompt from Discord, done in one sitting and edited in another, but then it turned into something more.

Jim is no stranger to Death and her cold ways. Even before his own mortal end, even before he’d left for America those long centuries ago, life and living were never certainties. London was a hellish place in his time, and the western frontier America had been chasing when he arrived was hardly better, disease determined to catch every man, woman, and child that wasn’t offed by their own hubris or kin. Hell, his own mother died suchly short months after they’d fled from Jeddart for some place south of the border. He’d dealt with many a corpse before and after his own. Why, then, must _she_ be any different?

He knows, as he knows most things, but chooses to hold the answers at bay for just a little longer- _surely_ they can wait- as he quietly stands a mere three feet from her casket, the mourners oblivious to his presence. Even the old kirkman, close enough to touch, reacts no further than a slight shudder at Jim’s passing by. All for the better. He’s not here to see _them_ , after all. She looks haggard, face gaunt and lined with years he cannot recall, yet peaceful as she rests in the red velvet- no doubt a pass at her name, Rosalee. Surely she would have whoever’s head for this facet if she could. She always despised such namely jokes. Jim would know, as he had oft teased her thusly, leaving a rose or two and a handwritten note in red ink at her windowsill in jest. Despite her proclaiming of detesting his humor, Jim could recall many an occasion the pressed petals decorating her wall had grown with each visit. When his visits were far more frequent, rather. In truth, they had gradually become fewer and farther between, as always seems to be the case, due to some fearful aversion of worldly connections perhaps- Jim didn’t care to ponder such.

He stands in silence as the funeral plays out, seemingly transfixed by the once much younger woman before him. Nary _too_ transfixed to oblige the circumstantial customs, mind you, having past removed his hat before first setting foot in the parlor. He mentally recites the rites he’s heard many a time, allowing pause and space for passages commonly changed and varied. He listens as her eulogies are given, ambling through his own memories with the witty woman. He exits amidst the somber crowd, following a single man as he heads to the hearse, inviting himself into the vehicle and along for a free ride. He assists the pallbearers in carrying her, hearing one quietly comment on the surprising lightness, another whispering back she’d all but wasted away before giving in. The effort continues to be less than expected as they lower her down, Jim lingering by her headstone as the last of the ceremony comes and goes. There’s no rush for them to finish. He can wait. She certainly waited much longer.

Once the living mourners have dispersed, Jim retrieves the flowers from his cloak- though they are lilies rather than roses, they’re nevertheless _red_ , surely she’ll understand- lowering himself to one knee and placing them at the base of her headstone. Then the garnet ring, then the ruby pendant, then one last red ink note. Damned he’d most certainly be if he lets her grave be as lonely as his own, and what is more filling of a space than momentos and what they carry? Conjuring his hat as he stands, resting a hand on the stone, he allows the true coldness of his being to transfer as frost over the corner of the surface. She always did prefer the winter, keeping her curtains drawn to watch the snow fall, leaving her window open while they chatted, the lovely church-bell assuring him she didn’t mind the cold. 

As he turns, however, he finds himself frozen just as well. Is it possible for a ghost to hallucinate? Stepping closer, her presence is surprising, yet comforting in the familiarity. The mild annoyance with which she gestures to the erythraean trinkets makes it undoubtedly her. Jim smiles despite having his features obscured- though he doubts his tricks can fool her now. He wonders what she must think of him now, seeing him fully, but covers this apprehension with a roguish wink. Rolling her eyes, once a warm brown and now pallid gray, she holds out her misty hands. There is an unmistakable weight as Jim opens his own silvery ones to accommodate her, a sense of comfort- nay, _assurance_ in her touch.

He’s here now, he hadn’t forgotten, he came to say goodbye. That’s what matters. Even if the gifts are dreadfully obnoxious. Not that he should take them back.

It’s difficult at first, but Jim accepts this reassurance, not without first apologizing nevertheless. She would teasingly scold him for that if she could. Instead, the weight in his hands encompasses them and increases, and she smiles, but only for a time too short. And then, as if he blinked- a preposterous notion, as he hadn’t blinked, nor has he had need of blinking in decades- both she and the soothing weight are gone. Just like that. No theatrics. No show. No drama. _Ever so his Rosalee_.

Jim lingers for a moment more, something else he’s grown quite used to. He lingers there in the cemetery, and he lingers in the city nearby, in a small but homely flat on the third story. There is the passing notion of companionable laughter, but only passing. His long still heart remains with the rest of his corporeal form ‘neath some boothill grave, yet there is the distinct sensation of _something_ where it could be. Or some ghostly equivalent, if Jim fancied himself some fantasizing. Not now, however. He’d rather fancy himself a moment more in memory. _Just a moment more_ …


End file.
